The Crows Nest
by LitMech
Summary: James is struggling. He meets Michael, and everything is okay again. James McAvoy/Michael Fassbender  *Older Work*


Unbeta'd.

I own nothing.

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James stands on the noisy sidewalk of the airport, the rusty junk sedan behind him silent where it's parked. He feels dirty, in last night's clothes; heavy and tired and sick, old and broken like the few possessions he has in the trunk. Beside him, a tiny hand is clasping his. Gavin is staring down at his little Star Wars tennis shoes, one of the things James splurged some of his remaining funds on, as a good bye gift. They light up, and he likes that, even though he feigns disinterest. James knows though, because Gavin is looking; he's looking, and moving his feet just enough to make them glitter red and blue. He's three and has already figured out minimalism. _That's my fault_, James thinks, and looks down at the mop of brown hair barely reaching his hip. Despite himself, the shit his life became after Anne passed away, Gavin has always loved him. Well, he hopes. Gavin is a quiet creature, likes to sleep (all the time). Sometimes he looks at James and James can almost hear him saying '_come on Dad, really?_' But other times, like this morning when he took him to buy the shoes, to buy the Bumblebee action figure, the new jacket and the tiny, soft blue sock monkey, he gives James another look. Something older than his years, deep in those familiar blue eyes. Like he knows James is thinking about him, Gavin looks up. He has his hand in his mouth and blinks up at his father, and James feels everything in his chest clench, twist, and melt. '_It's okay Dad,_' says the blue eyes. _'I don't know what's going on. But I know you love me._'

The tears sting worse every day.

James' parents come out of the terminal in nice jeans, in soft sweaters and with leather satchels that hold enough to entertain them for the day-long flights. All Gavin has is a Tonka Truck backpack with his few toys in it, and a rolling bag of Anne's with his clothes and shoes. James crouches as his parents get closer and turns Gavin to face him. Gavin is still looking at him, still seems to just know. James tries to smile.

"Hey Buddy," he said softly. "You're going to go and visit Grandma and Grandpa for a while, all right? They're going to take you back to where Daddy grew up. They'll show you all kinds of fun stuff, and you'll get all kinds of good food. And I'll talk to you on the computer."

"Kay," Gavin doesn't ask and James is glad. He's glad, because how can you explain to your only son that you can't pay for an apartment now? That you can't pay for gas and insurance and food for him, that you can't pay for new clothes and doctors' appointments when he gets the sniffles, or new shoes when his wear out? James can feel the pity in his parent's eyes but doesn't look up. This is the only thing they will do for him, have done for him, since he abandoned college to follow his guitar. He's grateful, for this. For taking Gavin.

"Okay," James smiles, tries to, again. Gavin just stumbles closer and bumps his face into James' chest. It's all he can do to wrap his arms around him, to nose into the soft baby hair and try to memorize the tiny warm body, the soft smell of James' shampoo and new shoes. "Okay."

"Love you," Gavin says into his shirt with an unusual amount of concern for an otherwise bored toddler. James wipes a thumb under his eyes when Gavin can't see, before leaning back and kissing his forehead for the last time, in a long time.

"Love you too buddy."

—

James gets halfway to nowhere before he pulls into a parking lot and cries. It's ugly and uncoordinated, and he leans his forehead on the steering wheel and shouts at it. He screams at the ancient leather and his knuckles hurt where they clutch it but he just can't let go. He can't. He doesn't even have a home to go home to now. He doesn't have a son to pick up from day care and make ravioli for. He doesn't have a girlfriend to pull him into a hug, or a threshold to step over for her to pull him into said hug after. He has a shit car, a guitar, a day job at the post office and that's fucking it.

Somewhere between his screaming and breaking his hands against the wheel, he dissolves himself into wracking sobs. They sting like fire and he hates himself, his life, his choices. Somewhere in the back of his mind, James knows he's staring at his feet but he doesn't see them. He sees nothing but eighties upholstery and bad karma. This was never the plan. Never, never the plan, never this…this shit hole. He was supposed to take off. Be a big name on a tour with a band and have a great life, and Anne wouldn't have had that fucking car accident, and Gavin would have two parents and a starlet life and all the God Damn Gummibears he could eat because he likes them. But not the yellow ones, so James always ate the yellow ones.

When he could afford to buy gummy bears, God. What kind of parent can't afford gummy bears? Or shoes. Or to take their kid to the public pool when it's hot during summer?

_The bad kind,_ he tells himself. _The awful, stupid, fucked up kind who can't get their shit together and get a real job. The kind who clings to an old and worn-out dream that will never come through. This is better, because now Gavin can have all those things. He'll be happy and well fed and won't need me anymore._

The musings are ended when a shrill and familiar something or other rattles around in his glove box. Three rings in and he's only moved an arm; the cracking flip phone is cold against his ear. "Hey Eames."

"I was going to call and see if you wanted to come over and watch bad horror movies. And you sound like you need it. What's up?"

James stays silent, perhaps too long because Eames is asking if he's there, hello, James? Eames has a lot going on. Eames has cancer, or had, apparently, says his doctor. Four more treatments and he's in the clear. He's sick a lot and Gavin was the brightest thing in his life, Eames says. Gavin was the brightest thing in everyone's life, James thinks.

"Yeah," He finally croaks, one hand coming off the wheel with popping bones to rub through the snot and tears on his face. "Yeah, I'll be there in a little bit. But we need to talk first."

"Is everything okay, James?"

"No." _And it never will be._

—

One week later, he meets **Michael**.


End file.
